I kept asking when Mom and Dad were coming back. No one ever answered.
My sister Emma was seven. She held on to me so tightly her hands shook. My brother Liam, only nine, didn’t cry. He stood still, face pale, eyes distant, as if he were already carrying something far too heavy for his age.
Within weeks, the café was sold. Our home followed. Debts surfaced that we’d never known existed, and every trace of our parents’ life vanished as if it had never mattered.
That first night in the orphanage, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds and чуж strangers, Liam leaned toward Emma and me and whispered, barely loud enough to hear, “We’re all we’ve got now. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
And he meant it.
He skipped meals so Emma and I could eat more. He saved every tiny allowance and used it to buy us fruit or candy, even though he never touched any himself. When bullies targeted me, Liam stood between us. When Emma cried herself to sleep, he stayed awake holding her hand.
One evening, after a particularly hard day, Liam sat us down in our shared room. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned with resolve.
“Mom and Dad had a dream,” he said, gripping our hands. “And we’re going to finish it. That café meant everything to them. One day, we’ll get it back.”
I didn’t understand how. I didn’t know when.
But I believed him.
When Emma was placed with a foster family, it felt like losing our parents all over again. I begged her not to go, my fingers clutching her sweater.
“I’ll visit,” she promised through tears. “Every week. I swear.”
Liam didn’t cry, but I saw his jaw tighten as she walked away.
She kept her word. Almost every week, she came back with stories, sweets, and small gifts. She said the foster home was fine. Better food. Kinder people. But Liam never trusted the system.
A year later, it was my turn. I didn’t want to leave. Liam knelt in front of me, gripping my shoulders.
“You’re not leaving us,” he said firmly. “We’re still together. Always.”
My foster family lived close, and I saw my siblings often—but something always felt missing.
Liam was the last to be placed. We made one condition clear to the social workers: we would only go to homes near each other. Somehow, they listened.
Even in different houses, we stayed close. We met constantly. We refused to drift apart.
One evening at the park, watching the sunset, Liam said quietly, “We’re getting it back.”
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